I brushed at the black threads that repaired the bullet holes. “I’ve been told it adds character.”
His pistol kept wavering, and I supposed that if he fired enough bullets, he might actually hit me by sketching out a wide target circle. “Can’t you see the signs—No Trespassing?”
Actually, I hadn’t seen any signs. I looked around. “Where?”
The old security guard muttered a curse under his breath. “Damn, I meant to put those up.” Then he raised the gun again. “Still, there’s no trespassing. Were you vandalizing the place?”
“No, just window-shopping. I meant no harm.” I kept both hands up. Security guards had every reason to be jittery in the Unnatural Quarter; at least the Smile Syndicate didn’t require him to wear a red shirt as part of his uniform. I lowered my voice. “You sure you’re getting paid enough for this?”
The old man’s voice was a hoarse squawk. “A job’s a job—and I get hazard pay.”
“And health benefits?”
“Funeral benefits, too.” He waved the gun. “Now, move along.”
I moved slowly. This guy had an itchy trigger finger, though he didn’t appear to have good aim. “I won’t cause you any grief. I’m a private investigator. Is this warehouse owned by the Smile Syndicate?”
“Says so right on the door, and that’s who signs my paychecks.”
“That’s all I wanted to verify.”
He scrutinized the business card I offered him, then his shoulders slumped in relief. “Sorry to be so jumpy.”
“No harm in caution.”
Before I left, I offered to help the old guard, whose name was Phil, tack up the No Trespassing signs in prominent places around the warehouse.
The next morning, after picking up notes on other inquiries to make during normal human business hours, I left the Quarter and found the glass-and-steel headquarters of the Smile Syndicate. Since these people were buying my town from the sewers on up, I wanted to know more about them.
The Smile HQ receptionist, Angela Drake according to her nameplate, gave me a look of contempt as I presented myself and asked to see Missy Goodfellow.
“Do you have an appointment?” Angela said.
“Do I need an appointment? Consider me a goodwill ambassador from the Unnatural Quarter, since the Smile Syndicate is expanding into so many local businesses.”
Again, Angela was not impressed. “Goodwill ambassadors don’t usually come from the low-rent mortician’s district.”
“We are talking about the Unnatural Quarter,” I pointed out, then added, feeling a little defensive, “and this is a damned good embalming job.”
Angela was dour, with gray circles under her big brown eyes. Her cheeks were sunken, and it seemed as if she wore anorexia as a badge of honor. I saw tattoos on her neck clumsily covered with thick makeup; her earlobes and nostrils showed the dimples of half-healed piercings. Her nails were painted a bright pink, and her hair was a determinedly average mouse brown, cut short (apparently with hedge trimmers).
I identified the type: Angela had probably been a sour-tempered second-wave Goth with black nails, black hair, and a shitty attitude—not as any kind of personal statement, but because her friends did it. After the Big Uneasy and the mainstreaming of the Unnatural Quarter, however, Goth trappings had become perfectly normal, so she gave up the affectations, hid the remnants in the workplace, and waited for some other popular trend that she could copy.
Or maybe I was imagining it all.
I tried a different tactic. “We’re working with Missy Goodfellow’s brother, Irwyn, on another matter. I met him the other night at a MLDW Society charity banquet, when he received the Humanitarian of the Year award.”
From behind me, a snippy voice said, “Knowing Goody-Two-Shoes doesn’t gain you any clout with me.”
Missy Goodfellow was tall and slender, dressed in a pristine white pantsuit. Her hair had been dyed a bright yellow, the goldenrod color of a smiley-face sticker. She was pretty in a cold-bitch way, and her expression had the effect of tightening sphincters all around.
She continued, “The Smile Syndicate is a for-profit business run by professionals, not some Easter Bunny operation trying to raise the ghost of Mother Teresa.”
I’d never heard the Easter Bunny and Mother Teresa invoked in the same sentence before.
I manufactured a smile. “I found your brother to be a pleasant and dedicated man. Doesn’t his good work bring respect to your family?”
“Irwyn is the laughingstock of our family, and our father is probably rolling over in his grave,” Missy said, then muttered, “Good thing we added the extra seals and locks to the crypt. We’ve cut Irwyn off completely from Syndicate day-to-day operations. He can waste his share of the money however he likes, so long as he has no connection with the company.” She regarded me with a haughty frown. “I would ask how I could help you, but helping is not on the agenda today, Mr. . . . ?”
“Dan Chambeaux,” Angela answered for me.
I extended my hand. “Pleased to meet you, Ms. Goodfellow.”
“The pleasure is all yours.” She made no move to take my hand.
I soldiered on. “Recently I helped liberate a hundred illegal golems who were manufacturing souvenirs for the Smile Syndicate. I wondered if you had any comment on that?”
Her expression remained stony beneath her bright yellow mop of hair. “The Smile Syndicate is about to open a line of gift shops, and we obtain product from numerous vendors. That inventory comes from private contractors, and we have no idea where or how the items are made.” Missy rattled off the explanation so rapidly and cleanly that she must have rehearsed it in front of a mirror.
“And you’re not at least surprised to hear it?” I asked. “Not sympathetic to the plight of downtrodden golems?”
She found a speck of lint on her white blazer, plucked it off, and held it between two fingers. She extended her hand toward Angela, who scrambled from behind the desk, relieved her boss of the offending lint, and deposited it in a trash can beside her desk.
Missy turned back to me. “Would you rather we bought our souvenir items from child-labor organizations in Third World countries?”
“Are those the only two options?” I asked.
“Mr. Chambeaux, the Smile Syndicate sees great commercial potential in the Unnatural Quarter. We have followed all appropriate laws and ordinances, and we hope to be good neighbors as well as equal-opportunity employers to our monster friends. Angela, please give Mr. Chambeaux a coupon for a free appetizer at the Goblin Tavern, valid once we reopen it as a family-friendly establishment.”
As Angela rummaged in the top drawer of her desk, I said, “Thanks, but no thanks. The place just won’t be the same. You’re already letting our favorite human bartender go.”